Karaoke Night
by Boyfrom0z
Summary: John sings some very drunken karaoke and Sherlock has to take him back home where, in his intoxicated state, he says something he may or may not mean, but can't remember the next morning. Rated for drinking and mild guy/guy.
1. Chapter 1

_I've never written for Sherlock before and I've only seen it once so I hope you'll forgive me for the dialogue, etc. being way off from the original._

* * *

"What is wrong with him?" Sherlock asked the bartender.

"Him?" he asked, jerking his head at the man swaying on the small stage.

"Yes."

"He's drunk."

"Is that all?" Sherlock inquired, scrutinizing his wasted flat mate who was singing very slurred karaoke to a song he was pretty sure was called "Hot 'n' Cold." Sherlock had known of course that John was very, very drunk. Even a total moron could tell that. However, he was also sure there was something else wrong, something he could not quite put his finger on. He suspected it was some sort of social issue, which would explain why he was having trouble pin-pointing it.

The bartender joined Sherlock in studying the drunken singer.

"I should know that you're no good for meeeeee," John half-sang, half-shouted.

"He's in love."

"What?"

"He's in love," repeated the bartender, returning to washing glasses.

"He just broke up with his girlfriend."

"Maybe he still likes her then."

"But _he_ broke up with _her_. Said there was a problem with their "chemistry" or something of that sort."

"Then maybe there's someone else," he said with a shrug. "You going to order something?"

"And end up like him? No thank you."

John finished his song and stumbled off the stage. Sherlock rose and went to collect him.

"Come on. You're going home," he said firmly, taking John's arm.

"Someone gunna pay for his drinks?" called the bartender as they passed.

Sherlock sighed, but settled John's tab before steering him out of the karaoke bar. John was leaning heavily on him as they waited for a cab.

"Come on," Sherlock said again as he tugged John inside. "Baker Street, 221b."

"Sherlock," said John vaguely.

"What?"

Bu the drunken man did not reply he just swayed gently with the movements of the cab.

When they reached Baker Street Sherlock practically had to carry John up the stairs and over to the sofa where he deposited his flat mate.

"Sherlock," John began again.

"What?"

"Why were you there?"

"I came looking for you," he said as he found a glass to get John some water.

"Really?" John asked sounding perfectly elated.

"Yes. Here." Sherlock handed him the glass.

"Thanks."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you still in love with Sarah?"

"What?"

"Sarah."

"Oh." John gave a strange sort of laugh. "No. No, defiantly not."

"But you are in love with someone."

John stared at him with bloodshot eyes for a moment before nodding.

"Who?"

"What, have you're powers of observation finally failed you?" asked John, getting unsteadily to his feet and taking a few steps towards Sherlock.

"John?" he asked uncertainly, taking a step back.

"Sherlock." John smiled for a minute before falling back onto the couch. "Oh who am I kidding?"

"What?" asked Sherlock, now thoroughly confused.

"Isn't it obvious? You can tell a man's life story from his phone, but you can't tell who your own roommate's in love with? Some detective you are."

"I know who it is, John," said Sherlock quietly.

"Really? Or are you just trying to get me to say it?"

"Why would I lie? But you should say it." Sherlock did know, of course. Now that he realized it, he knew too that he'd known all along; he just hadn't come to terms with the fact until this moment. Still, he wanted to hear it from John's own lips.

John smirked at him for a moment before speaking.

"You, you fucking psychopath."

"Sociopath."

"Whatever." And with that, he passed out.

"God, what happened?" asked John, appearing in the living room late the next morning with a hand to his head. "I don't remember a damn thing after the cab and everything before that's not to clear."

"You got spectacularly drunk," said Sherlock without looking up from his book.

"I know that. How did I end up back here?"

"I brought you home."

"Right," said John starting to node and quickly stopping as it made his head hurt even more than it already did. He staggered into the kitchen for a glass of water and some painkiller before coming to sit in the living room with Sherlock.

The pair sat in silence for a few minutes until a vague memory filtered through John's dazed and dehydrated mind.

"Sherlock," he said cautiously.

"Yes?"

"Did I do anything _odd_ last night?"

"You mean besides drunk karaoke?"

"Yes."

"Why?" asked Sherlock slowly, looking up at John for the first time.

"I dunno. I just feel like I did something – or maybe said something – really stupid."

"You were drunk," said Sherlock dismissively.

"_Did_ I say something weird?"

Sherlock considered him for a moment, mentally flicking through the pros and cons of telling him the truth.

"No," he said and returned to his book. If John really was in love with him when he was sober, he needed to come to that conclusion by himself. And maybe when he was sober things would a go little further than an awkward confession. Or maybe it would all blow up in this face. Not that he minded either way of course, Sherlock assured himself, but he certainly wouldn't mind if what John had said turned out to be true.

* * *

_So what do you people think? Was that a one-shot or should I keep going?_


	2. Chapter 2

_Ok wow. I don't think I've ever had such an enthusiastic response to a first chapter in just a day or so. I'm so glad you guys enjoyed it, but now I feel like this had better be good. Hopefully I work well under pressure. Anyway, I hope you guys like the second chapter!_

* * *

By that evening John had more or less recovered, though he still had a headache. Now that he could think halfway clearly, he tried to remember the circumstances that had brought him to the unfortunate state he'd been in by the time Sherlock found him in.

He had left the flat yesterday evening in hopes of distracting himself from the morose mood he'd sunken into since breaking up with Sarah. He'd headed towards a rather bar-heavy area-.

No, that wasn't right. He'd been feeling down since before he'd ended it with Sarah. Something had been bothering him for a while now. He tried to pinpoint it. Maybe about the time he'd moved in with Sherlock. Somewhere around then?

At any rate, he'd gone to several bars; the exact number was lost in a haze of alcohol. He remembered trying to talk to various pretty girls and mostly failing spectacularly though he had found a number in his phone for someone he didn't know named Jordan. He profusely hoped Jordan was a woman and had not dared call the number.

He had somehow ended up at the karaoke place. He was pretty sure he'd just wandered there, having never been there before. In fact, it was the first time he'd ever sang karaoke in his life. He had probably gotten even more drunk there before taking the microphone and, he was sure, making a total ass of himself in front of rather a lot of other people who he (hopefully) didn't know. He had no idea what he'd sung, but suspected it had been something dreadful and tasteless.

And then Sherlock had been there and had taken him home and gotten him some water. Sherlock taking care of him? That didn't seem quite in character with the man he knew. He thought they might have talked a bit too, but the more he tried to remember, the less sure he became.

"Feeling better?" asked Sherlock surfacing from the newspaper he'd been searching for something of interest.

"More or less."

"You were a mess last night."

John frowned. This really wasn't like Sherlock at all.

"I know. Thank you, by the way, for-."

"No problem," Sherlock cut him off. "How much do you remember?" He asked, wondering if John had recalled what he had said.

"Bits and pieces. Did we talk when we got back here?"

"A little." Did he remember? Sherlock wasn't about to tell him, but that didn't mean he wasn't willing to point him in the right direction.

John's frown deepened as he tried to remember.

"I just feel like I'm forgetting something."

"I practically had to carry you to bed. Do you remember that?"

John shook his head and found himself, inexplicably, wishing that he did remember it.

Sherlock remembered it of course. He remembered it perfectly, the press of John's body against his, John's warm breath on his neck, John making strange giggling noises when he'd tugged off his shoes.

"Huh. Well, thanks for looking out for me."

Sherlock nodded and went back to the paper.

John picked up a book, but he quickly came to realize he was utterly incapable of focusing on it; his mind was too busy trying to remember what had happened the night before.

Sherlock watched John struggling over the top of the thoroughly dull paper.

John was sure there was something else, knew that whatever was missing must be buried somewhere in his memory or it wouldn't be bothering him so much. But if there _was_ something then there was, obviously, another way to access said missing piece.

"Sherlock," said John slowly, setting aside his book.

"Hm?" He did not raise his eyes from the paper he suddenly focused on.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Depends. What are you asking me?"

"What did we talk about last night?"

"Not much,"

"Sherlock."

"John, if there's something you can't remember, I'm sure it's for a reason."

"What?"

"It's probably just something so horribly embarrassing that your brain's blocked it out for you," he said with a shrug, wondering if what he was making up was in fact true and how he felt about that possibility.

"Like what?"

"Like what you were singing when I found you."

"What was I singing?" John asked hollowly.

"Hot and Cold by Katy Perry."

"Oh god."

John decided Sherlock was probably right about his brain trying to protect him and did not press him for further details.

Sherlock knew he'd put John off the trail of what his flatmate was really trying to remember and could not quite explain to himself why he'd done it. He was sure he had a good reason – he always did – he just hadn't located it quite yet.

"I think I'll go to bed," said John getting to his feet with a sigh.

"Need me to carry you?" asked Sherlock without looking up.

"I think I'm good, thanks"

A few minutes later John sunk onto his bed and dropped his head into his hands.

What the hell was going on?

This was definitely not normal Sherlock behavior.

Yet he could not name what was wrong. It was always on the tip of his tongue, but every time he tried to say it, it slipped away, refusing to be labeled or defined. He wished there was someone he could talk to about it all, but he still knew almost no one in London and most of the people he did know did not have the misfortune to know Sherlock Holmes.

Maybe it was just a side effect of his hangover. Yes, that was probably it. The feeling would surely have passed by morning. With this comforting thought in his mind, John finished getting ready for bed, turned out the lights, climbed between the sheet, and was soon asleep.

Downstairs, however, Sherlock was still wide-awake, his mind on John wondering if a sociopath, even a high-functioning one like himself, really could be attracted to someone else. He reached for a book of physiological conditions, consulted the index, and started to read.


	3. Chapter 3

John awoke the next morning feeling much better. However, after a breakfast spent starring vaguely at Sherlock, who was sprawled across the sofa fast asleep with a large book over his face, John realized the nagging, forgetful feeling had still not left him. A part of him suddenly wanted to return to the karaoke bar and see if he could figure anything out, but the much more sensible part of him never wanted to go near that place again.

John stood up and put his dishes in the sink. He then walked quietly over to where Sherlock lay. The curtains were closed so it was still fairly dark in the living room. He carefully lifted the heavy book off his flatmate's face, trying not to wake him. Sherlock gave a little twitch, but did not wake. John mused that he must have been up until the very wee hours of the morning to have not woken up. He sighed, set the book quietly on the floor, and was about to turn away when something inside stopped him.

John looked down at Sherlock's peaceful face and smiled. He looked so _normal_ when he was asleep. He knew it sounded rather cruel, but it was true. Sherlock was never anything remotely like normal when he was awake.

John blinked and realized he had extended his hand halfway to Sherlock's brown curls. He quickly jerked his hand back and stared at it in horror. Was he loosing his mind? He hadn't meant to reach out. Why then had he done it? Sherlock's hair did look extremely soft. He was sure it would be nice to the touch.

Wait. No! What was he thinking?

He let out an involuntary little gasp and Sherlock smiled inwardly. He was, of course, awake and had been since John had come downstairs. However, he had lain still in hopes that John would speak or do something of interest.

He heard John sigh as the doctor ran his fingers through his hair and wondered what was wrong with him.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked in a faned sleepy voice as he sat up and looked at John who was frozen like a deer in the proverbial headlights.

"Nothing," he said, quickly stepping away from Sherlock and looking anywhere but at his flatmate. "I was just going to go out. Do you need-?"

"You're a terrible liar, John. Don't bother trying."

John sighed. "It's nothing."

"What's nothing?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him.

"What?" asked John, taking a step back and feeling persecuted.

"Nothing," said Sherlock, noting the flush in John's cheeks, the way he'd dropped his gaze to the floor, how he was fidgeting uncomfortably.

All signs pointed to one conclusion. Sherlock Holmes had never been one to wait for a confession before declaring a case closed, but in this, the case of John Watson, he did, for once, truly want to hear the words fall from the suspect's own lips.

"I'm going out," said John shortly and hurried out the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair as he passed it.

"Bye," muttered Sherlock as the flat door closed with a rather loud _bang_.

John walked quickly down the road with an insuppressible franticness in his gate and no idea of where he was going.

Sherlock.

Why could he not get that man off his mind?

What was so special about him besides being a genius and a psychopath?

His phone buzzed in his pocket, John pulled it out, and saw it was a text from Sherlock.

_I'm a sociopath, not a psychopath. SH_

John shook his head, wondering how the hell Sherlock could have possibly known what he was thinking. He glanced at the text again as he was about to delete it. Something about it rang a sort of bell...

John froze dead in the middle of the pavement causing the person walking behind him to crash into his back and curse him, but John did not hear.

In that moment, it had all come back.

All of it.

"No," he whispered, eyes wide as he tried not to believe his newly risen memories of the pervious night.

There was no way he'd said that and if he had, well, like Sherlock had said, he'd been drunk, very drunk. It didn't matter. It didn't mean anything, did it?

Ever since he'd started experimenting with alcohol, John had had an extremely unfortunate habit of saying things he really shouldn't say when he got drunk. They tended to be very personal and they also tended to be true.

But no, they were always things he knew. They were secrets not weird self-discoveries.

No, he told himself, stop right there. It's not a discovery. It's not true.

He'd been so drunk.

But then why had he been unable to rip his mind from thoughts of his flatmate?

But he didn't. He wasn't. He must have just been spewing crap.

Sherlock could always tell when he was lying.

John turned and broke into a run.

A few minutes later he burst through the flat door to find Sherlock right where he'd left him.

"John," he said pleasantly, as if he'd been expecting him.

"Sherlock," he gasped. "What I told you last night, was I lying?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in question.

"I can't lie to you; you can always tell."

"You were drunk, John," said Sherlock, rising and taking a few steps towards his flatmate. John thought he heard a note of sadness or bitterness in the detective's voice, but he couldn't be sure.

"Was I lying?" John pressed, holding his ground.

Sherlock took a deep breath, looking, for the first time since John had met him, uncomfortable.

"No," he said at last.

John felt his mind reel.

It was true then.

"Though I don't know why you're taking my word for it. They are your emotions after all," he continued calmly.

John stared at him and then realized he was right. What he'd said last night did not dictate his reality. What a stupid thing to think. He could have hit himself.

Then he met Sherlock's brown eyes.

Then it was all over.

* * *

_Ok, so there wasn't a massive amount of Sherlock dragging it out of him, but I had to put the poor guy out is his misery. This was supposed to be a one-shot after, all._


	4. Chapter 4

_Several people thought that the pervious chapter was the end, but it wasn't (obviously) and neither is this one. The next chapter should be the end and it's also going to be pretty short just as a heads up._

* * *

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Do you-? _Could_ you-?" John stammered, still too shocked to speak and wondering desperately if Sherlock could possibly return his feelings. He would go and fall for a sociopath.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

John was honestly quite surprised he didn't want to hit him.

"I-," he began, but his voice faltered. "I love you," he said, speaking the revelation with a strange wonderment. "I love you," he said again with more force, "but you- you're-."

"A high-functioning sociopath?" Sherlock suggested helpfully.

"Yes," cried John in frustration. He felt suddenly angry, angry at Sherlock for being the way he was, but more angry at himself for falling for someone like that.

"John."

Before he could speak, Sherlock had taken a few certain steps towards, taken John's face firmly in his hands, and kissed him.

John had no idea what to say when Sherlock released him. His mind had been whipped utterly blank by Sherlock's kiss, by the feel of his lips. He was so stunned, in fact, that it did not even register what the kiss truly signified.

"Does that answer your question?" asked Sherlock in a business like tone.

"My-?" asked John blankly, far too bewildered to even remember having asked a question at all.

"If I do or could love you."

"Right," said John starting to remember, but still not comprehending.

"Both answers being yes."

"Right," John nodded. "What?" he yelped a moment later.

"Calm down. I love you."

"You?"

"Yes."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"I think I need to sit down."

"Yes."

John sank weakly onto the sofa and Sherlock sat calmly beside him.

"How long have you known?" he asked shakily.

"Actively? Slightly under twenty-four hours. Subconsciously? Since I met you."

John nodded vaguely.

"You look tired."

John nodded again.

Sherlock rose and held a hand out to John, who stared at it blankly for a moment before taking it. The detective pulled the doctor to his feet and intertwined their fingers.

"Come on, John."

"It's not even noon," he protested distantly.

"I really think you ought to lie down a bit."

"But-."

"Just come on."


	5. Chapter 5

_Ok so we're skipping ahead to the next morning. And for all you dirty-minded people, no they did not spend that __entire__ day in bed together._

_

* * *

_

The next morning found Sherlock lying awake, but still. John was curled in his arms still deep in sleep. For the first time he could recall Sherlock was content just to lie there. He had no desire to rise and work or read or do anything with himself. John was warm against his chest, his head tucked under Sherlock's chin. Sherlock inhaled the sent of his lover's hair and sighed.

His lover.

He never would have dreamed it possible, but before he'd met John he never would have thought anyone was capable of sharing rooms with him, much less loving him, and yet John had proved perfectly able to do both.

"No more hot and cold," he whispered into John's hair. "Just you and me in love."

"You mean that?" John whispered into Sherlock's chest.

"You're awake."

"Yes."

"I didn't know."

"What, you didn't observe a change in my breathing or something?" he teased.

"Well, I must admit you're rather distracting."

"Aren't I?" John nuzzled Sherlock's chest. "So did you mean it?"

"Of course."

John smiled and Sherlock smiled too though John couldn't know it. They were nothing if not an odd couple, but somehow it seemed it just might work.

"So you up for some karaoke tonight?" asked Sherlock.

John pushed him away and sat up, glaring down at his lover.

"You really are a sociopath, aren't you? Or at least a sadist."

"But you love me."

"For some goddamn reason, yes. Yes, I do," he said giving Sherlock a sweet kiss on the lips.

"So was that a no to karaoke?"

"Let's just say I'd rather spend tonight with you."

* * *

_Fin._

_I hope you guys liked it and that I managed to keep the people who originally told me to keep going with it happy._

_Thanks for reading!_


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